#//Some other family stuff and working on zine and other writing projects that have taken priority too.

[kingspuppet]

Life's been a little hectic so being on here has taken a major backseat. :') Sorry for those that are waiting on things (IC and OOC). My activity is probably gonna continue to be super sporadic and random for a bit. So thanks everyone for being super patient with me. 🩵

[allthethingswecoulddo]

Being a Bi Survivor- 11 Reflections

This Bi Visibility Day I want to share my story of being a survivor. Before we begin, some content warnings. 

Read with care.  ❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

In this post, I talk about coercive relationships and sexual violence including mentions of rape in an intimate relationship. I explore my experience of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and other mental health issues including thoughts of suicide. 

I’ve used asterisks for some difficult words e.g. I write s****l violence and r**e  

You can find links to services in this post. If you don’t feel like reading on, that’s cool!

When I read the statistics on bi experiences of s****l violence, a whole cacophony of feelings surface. I see myself and my friends reflected; surviving, processing and trying to pave a way through the rest of our lives after abuse. I hear echoes of the invalidation and ridicule that permeates public consciousness about bi identities. I’m reminded of the voices within the queer community that erase and degrade bi people, with off-hand comments or sustained attacks. And it’s not easy to find the words for those feelings or the words to explain that biphobia leads to deep and lasting harm.

Bisexual women are five times more likely than heterosexual women to be abused by a partner. In one study, 10.8 per cent of bi women reported having been abused, compared to 8.2 per cent of lesbians and 6 per cent of straight women. *

Bisexuals who experience multiple oppressions, such as trans, BAME or disabled people, face even higher rates of sexual violence. Evidence from America shows that while trans people face higher rates of sexual violence, bi trans women are the most at risk.*

I hope that by sharing my experience, other survivors will feel less alone and discover tools to navigate their way through the uncharted terrain of trauma. The role of biphobia in the abuse I experienced might not seem obvious, but it is front and center - biphobia made me vulnerable to abuse, biphobia played a part in sustaining my self-doubt and biphobia strengthened my fear that no one would believe me.

It’s important to emphasize that abuse can happen to anyone. Whether or not you are bi or LGBT+, I hope that this is useful for you.

I was trapped, and only when I left did the fear flood in.

Whilst I was in an abusive relationship, I couldn’t see it. My mental health spiraled, and my friends expressed concern about the dynamics of the relationship. I was much better at finding flaws in myself and other reasons I felt tangled up than I was at recognizing the ways my boundaries were being crossed, and my trust abused. In other words, I blamed myself from the start.

Only after I had left the relationship did I start to recognize what had been happening; that coercion and manipulation were at the heart of the way my abuser had been communicating with me and treating me. The dislocation between my inner world of turmoil and the realities of the relationship suddenly make sense, and that’s when I started to feel the fear.

I felt it hit me like a tonne of bricks.

It might seem like a strange concept, to ‘realise’ that you’ve been fearful of someone or to ‘realise’ that you’ve been harmed. How could I not know that I’d been s******y assaulted?

The saying ‘the penny dropped’, ‘it hit me like a tonne of bricks’ and ‘my world turned upside down’ had never felt so literal as when I started to recognise that I’d escaped an abusive relationship.

My body kept secrets until I was ready to survive them.

Even at this time, when symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) kicked in and I was at my lowest, I remember being so grateful and in awe of my body. It was as if it had held onto all the feelings I couldn’t have processed and managed within the relationship.

My body waited until I was safe to release all the feelings that you’d expect in a situation of threat. I could feel the chemicals in my bloodstream, keeping me awake, alert, poised for defense. 

Hypervigilance plagued my days and nights - it was exhausting, and at the time I didn’t understand what was happening. I felt like I was losing control, and didn’t know what to believe.

Fight. Flight. Freeze. 

I’d heard of the fight or flight response, but I didn’t know you could freeze. It makes sense. When it happened I left my body, I left the room, I went into another world because the one I was in was unbearable. That’s how my body and mind protected me.

But then dissociation became a way for my mind and body to cope in the aftermath too. For me, it felt like a powerful anesthetic, numbing out every feeling indiscriminately, even the good stuff.

Random things would trigger panic or dissociation - most annoyingly, for a long time, I couldn’t listen to the song Golden Years by David Bowie. If I smelt damp clothes or saw a red rain jacket, a whole string of associations fired through me and I was hurtling towards a panic attack.

She told me to respect my coping mechanisms. I hated them. 

My therapist (who I could barely afford - that’s a whole topic of its own) explained that this was a coping mechanism and that I should respect it and work with it. But I was impatient and frustrated. I wanted to get over this, quick.

Looking back, I was struggling to accept what had happened. It was like a story I was telling myself, about someone else’s misfortune.

Time was my enemy.

This period of time, in my memory, feels warped and strange. I remember feeling minutes passing, and time was like sinking sand - it was so hard to keep moving forward and I couldn’t see a future.

I started to have thoughts of suicide. I hadn’t experienced that before and felt really scared and confused. Above all, I felt completely alone, like no one would understand - even if I had the words.

Just above the city, our dinghy, my lifeboat- Survivors’ Network.

Something that surprised me and I’ve never forgotten is how a reserve of resilience and determination, an energy that I never knew I had, surged forward just when I thought I wanted to give up. 

I found Survivors’ Network and started to go to group meet-ups. At first, I’d sit in the circle and drink the tea, eat the biscuits and smile like I was at a community meeting about, I don’t know...a litter problem in the city!?

I fooled myself into believing I didn’t belong there, that it was inconsequential and I was just coming along for the ride. I was keeping my own experience at arm's length so I didn’t have to face the fallout. But as I listened to other survivors’ stories and got to know them, I became comfortable enough to start sharing and chipping away at my shame. 

The group became like a transient family, and a lifeline when I needed it most. 

She told me she believed me.

Only a few friends knew what was going on. I started using other services like Samaritans, RISE and Rape Crisis for extra support. One night I called a hotline for survivors and confessed (to myself as much as the volunteer at the end of the line) that I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened, because I was scared they wouldn’t believe me. They just paused and said, I believe you. I felt relief radiate my chest and hot tears melting the frozen numbness I’d been trying to break out of.

Every good night’s sleep is a Fuck You.

After that, barrages of feelings were set free. One of the most difficult being anger. I didn’t know how to channel it or what to do with it.

I played Golden Years really loudly in my room, pushed myself to go places I desperately wanted to avoid because they were associated with my trauma or ran the risk of seeing my abuser by attending things I would usually go to.

I later learned that intentionally triggering yourself after abuse isn’t unusual. It was partly a way of feeling alive through the numbness, and partly my rage starting to bubble to the surface. I wasn’t going to be kept silent and hidden.

But over time I learned to redefine defiance. I remember the first time I said my abusers' name in therapy without disappearing into dissociation, I called them a wanker and my therapist - who was quite posh and quite serious- said, ‘I see your strength come back when you say that.’

My successes in recovery were small, slow and quiet - I learned to celebrate every single one. And to start sharing my journey with the people I love and trust.

It took a long time to feel like a ‘survivor.’ 

A friend who supported me at the time told me once to ‘make the abuser small, in your mind.’ For me, PTSD flashbacks were not the only way that I felt I was ‘reliving’ the trauma. Fear had permeated every aspect of my life, making me feel as if I was still living through it. The idea of shrinking down my abuser in my mind started to help me see that there was no looming, invisible threat, ready to strike at any moment. It was over, and I was safe.

It became something I had survived. Bit by bit I befriended my body again, and started to heal - recalibrating into the present and mapping my ‘new normal.’

My ‘new normal’.

I wish I had known that although trauma would devastate my life, it would give me an opportunity to rebuild it with self-compassion at the center. When people told me, ‘you won’t always feel like this’, or ‘you’ll adjust’- I thought they meant that I would get used to living in darkness.

Survival for me has meant a lot of private, proud moments. Managing to sleep through the night, laughing with friends, finding coping mechanisms that make me feel safe and above all, learning to open up to meaningful connection with others in a way I don’t think I did even before all of this.

Recovery is a process and one that isn’t always linear. There’s no right way to do it. If like me, you take two steps forward and one step back - just know you are never alone.

Thank you so much for reading.

Here’s that post featuring some survivor services again.

Want to know about any future posts, zines or projects about I do about being a survivor? Pop me an email at mollymaher93@gmail.com

* Both stats are taken from here: https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/bisexual-lgbt-pride-sexual-assault-violence-invisible-minority-survivors-a8435226.html

*Here’s a definition of bi from Stonewall: https://www.stonewall.org.uk/help-advice/glossary-terms#b

[noxpress]

Notes on The Argonauts

I finished reading Maggie Nelson's The Argonauts (2015). One down on the list of books I've set out to read this summer. It will very likely be the easiest of them all, I had no intentions for this one. I heard The Argonauts mentioned a few times by peers, I even had parts of it assigned in class, but I never bothered to look into it properly. I knew at a glance at a professor's scan that I liked the way Nelson incorporates quotes into her writing. I've always hated formal citation, cutting up my sentences with information. I also don't like compromising on others' ideas. If I could write only in a collage of block quotes, I would. I'm glad someone finally stuck it to them. It's Bluets I had actually intended to read, perhaps for silly reasons. First, simply because it wasn't The Argonauts, second because I like it when people have a thing and I thought the colour blue might be a thing, and third because the blurbs I skim-read announced a mix of prose and verse, which, in my experience of Anne Carson, is a great thing.I ended up with The Argonauts just because I wandered into a book store on a lousy day last month to indulge (a small few times a year I let myself buy a book new: on lousy days, or when there's really nothing else to go around). It was displayed right across the entrance. The shop had some kind of watery theme going. This edition has blue-purple waves for a cover, it's nice and simple. I did what I always do: opened to a page at random and gave it a glance to see if it looked palatable. There were lines of verse (good), they were about motherhood (this I wasn't so sure about, felt uneasy even). Either way, I walked out of there comfort-book under arm, without knowing anything about Maggie Nelson except her name, and completely forgetting about Bluets. I leave a trace in my books, so I can find my way again. The folded corners at the top tell me at what pace I read. The ones at the bottom tell me where I wanted to remember something the most. For Argonauts ,I tacked on a few other things: some blue post-it notes for further readings, three exactly, various pencil annotations, and a few words scribbled in the margins. I know I will came back to The Argonauts. The books I seem to refuse to preview properly are always such a surprise. I had that happen with The Bell Jar. I was 18 and had absolutely no idea what it was about and knew nothing about Sylvia Plath either. I was reading quite a few classic American novels that year (I know Why the Caged Bird Sings, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, Post Office, Fahrenheit 541, Brave New World,  Lolita etc.) and, given such a list, the Bell Jar could land pretty much anywhere in terms of what it was about. For some reason I had it pegged as something pastoral, perhaps Southern, and coming of age. My guess is Plath's gender amongst all the men had me lump it with Maya Angelou and Harper Lee. Nonetheless, the modernity of it, the content of it, the sincerity of it... hit me like a ton of bricks. Argonauts didn't have quite such a jarring effect, but it was a definite experience in the un-anticipated. I've spoken to a few girls my age about the strange turn some things appear to have taken in recent years. No one thinks to warn you. It suddenly dawned on me one day that pregnancy was something that I couldn't quite get in trouble over anymore. For the longest time accidental pregnancy just had this death-factor reaction of "I'd be completely fucked". It meant shame, it meant secrecy, it meant incredible burden if uttered. But somewhere in the midst of my extended family growing larger – older cousins and siblings making babies – it struck me that mothers (my mother, my aunts, 'my many-gendered mothers'), that is the gyroscopes of opinion and permissibility, were anticipating the emergence of a new generation of care. Hints are dropped in the form of stored children's books and stuffed animals – carefully, quietly, pragmatically kept. A tattoo artist warned me about places not to get tattooed. It is my responsibility to anticipate my body. The irony, and I love it all the more for it, is the tattoo I have of my family motto: nunquam non paratus, or never unprepared. It's from this strange perch – discovering what it means to be a fertile body in the eyes of others, and tentatively in my own – that I read The Argonauts. It is also from a place of naming and recognising, for the first time realistically, what ordinary devotion to someone means. I know this book is a valuable reading, but I'm aware of my own prematurity. I can anticipate the need to return to it, for whichever reason, and I know the next times will be different. For now, I've gathered some passages that struck me now, as I feel, as I was reading, as I am writing. They might seem oddly selective, but I think this is only a sign of how versatile The Argonauts is. In its richness it offers a multiplicity of readings (and I feel sure its generosity of quotes have just this purpose). Here are the lessons I gathered from Nelson and from those she speaks through: Writing: "As I labor grimly on these sentences, wondering all the while if prose is but the gravestone marking the forsaking of wildness (fidelity to sense-making, to assertion, to argument, “however loose)—I’m no longer sure which of us is more at home in the world, which of us more free.” (65) "What other reason is there for writing than to be traitor to one’s own reign, traitor to one’s own sex, to one’s class, to one’s majority? And to be traitor to writing.” (Parnet, 122) "Over the years I’ve had to train myself to wipe the sorry off almost every work e-mail I write; otherwise, each might begin, Sorry for the delay, Sorry for the confusion, Sorry for whatever. One only has to read interviews with outstanding women to hear them apologizing.” (Wittig, 122) "Writing to him felt akin to giving him a name: an act of love, surely, but also one of irrevocable classification, interpellation.” (175) I've been thinking for a while now about an act of naming and how names arrest things in flux. Also, see Anne Carson's introduction to Autobiography of Red. "Ordinary words are good enough." (25) “What exactly is lost to us when words are wasted? Can it be that words comprise one of the few economies left on earth in which plenitude—surfeit, even—comes at no cost?” (Carson, 60) "You know so much about people from the second they open their mouths. Right away you might know that you might want to keep them out. That’s part of the horror of speaking, of writing. There is nowhere to hide." (Myles, 121) I concur, writing is horrifying. I've also learned that writing can be wilted (129). "I gained an outsized faith in articulation itself as its own form of protection". (154) Gender/sex/binaries: "As if I did not know that, in the field of gender, there is no charting where the external and the internal begin and end—" (64) "How does one get across the fact that the best way to find out how people feel about their gender or their sexuality—or anything else, really—is to listen to what they tell you, and to try to treat them accordingly, without shellacking over their version of reality with yours?" (66) "Let him stay oblivious—for the first and last time, perhaps—to the task of performing a self for others, to the fact that we develop, even in utero, in response to a flow of projections and reflections ricocheting off us. Eventually, we call that snowball a self (Argo)." ( 118) In-betweenness: Matter and liminality are two of my research topics. It's been so pleasing, uncanny, to see them flit in an out of sight. It's really what this is about: being, becoming passage. “How to explain, in a culture frantic for resolution, that sometimes the shit stays messy?” (65) “On the one hand, the Aristotelian, perhaps evolutionary need to put everything into categories—predator, twilight, edible—on the other, the need to pay homage to the transitive, the flight, the great soup of being in which we actually live. Becoming, Deleuze and Guattari called this flight: becoming-animal, becoming-woman, becoming-molecular. A becoming in which one never becomes, a becoming whose rule is neither evolution nor asymptote but a certain turning” (66) Matter: "Spirit is matter reduced to an extreme thinness: O so thin!” (Emerson, 41) "Empirically speaking, we are made of star stuff. Why aren’t we talking more about that? Materials never leave this world. They just keep recycling, recombining. That’s what you kept telling me when we first met—that in a real, material sense, what is made from where." (151) "Made of star stuff" reminds of Nostalgia for the Light. I think it's the first time I understood space as a material history. Dust to dust and all that. Argo-, ordinary devotion, revisiting: "It reminds us that there is difference right where we may be looking for, and expecting, communion." (116) The year I fell in love with theory, theory of all kinds, even though this course was called "anthropological", I was assigned 'difference' as a theme to explore for one semester. I hold onto the word dearly now, because it has so much to teach. Now I hear the word "difference" and it makes me think of Deleuze in a purple jumper, slouched in a chair, talking about refrains. Deleuze taught me about communion too. What it means when two refrains commune, when two different scales encounter each other. Anthropology is all about encounters. Encounters are only possible with difference, however large or small. A zine called Friendship as a Form of Life, which is as beautiful as its title sounds, divided its pages into the following chapters: Common, Commune, Communion. I think about this sequence a lot. “The Argo’s parts may get replaced, but it’s still called the Argo. We may become more used to jumping into flight, but that doesn’t mean we have done with all perches. We ought to say a feeling of and, a feeling of if, a feeling of but, and a feeling of by, quite as readily as we say a feeling of blue or a feeling of cold. We ought to, but we don’t—or at least, we don’t quite as readily. But the more you do, the more quickly you can recognize the feeling when it comes around again, and hopefully you won’t need to stare as long.” (68) Hello from my perch. "Privilege saturates, privilege structures." "The self without sympathetic attachments is either a fiction or a lunatic…. [Yet] dependence is scorned even in intimate relationships, as though dependence were incompatible with self-reliance rather than the only thing that makes it possible." (Philips/Taylor, 126) I am learning this. "That’s enough. You can stop now: the phrase Sedgwick said she longed to hear whenever she was suffering. (Enough hurting, enough showing off, enough achieving, enough talking, enough trying, enough writing, enough living.)" (128) Yes, I can stop. Please stop. I'v been spiralling a little lately. "But whatever I am, or have since become, I know now that slipperiness isn’t all of it. I know now that a studied evasiveness has its own limitations, its own ways of inhibiting certain forms of happiness and pleasure. The pleasure of abiding. The pleasure of insistence, of persistence. The pleasure of obligation, the pleasure of dependency. The pleasures of ordinary devotion. The pleasure of recognizing that one may have to undergo the same realizations, write the same notes in the margin, return to the same themes in one's work, relearn the same emotional truths, write the same book over and over again—not because one is stupid or obstinate or incapable of change, but because such revisitations constitute a life." (140) This quote means so much to me at this particular time: as I cease to recognise myself, as I come undone and remade (argo-), as I learn what it means to feel so easily, to be so ordinarily devoted to someone. I was so ready to feel confused about questions of loss and gain, whether it was something to feel self-conscious about, to lose oneself to, or to rebel against. But the pleasure is simply what it is. It seems so obvious that I feel naive. Of course it's about the knowing itself, about matter and touch. It's always about what hangs in the air. I have someone to learn ordinary devotion for and the shock of this is still wearing off. I thought of it as a thawing at first, but 'to revisit' will be my mantra instead. Revisit, revisit, revisit. I am not gone, I am not new, "I am made and remade continually". (Woolf) "But is there really such a thing as nothing, as nothingness? I don’t know. I know we’re still here, who knows for how long, ablaze with our care, its ongoing song." (178) Refusing the nothing has been part of my venture these past months. It started with Elizabeth Povinelli's suffix "-ish", and all other blurring of boundaries, like between the living and non-living. Tim Ingold also refuses the nothing of atmosphere. Nelson's quote brings me back to communion: line-making, care, drifting, song-making, correspondence. Mother: "If all goes well, the baby will make it out alive, and so will you. Nonetheless, you will have touched death along the way. You will have realized that death will do you too, without fail and without mercy. It will do you even if you don’t believe it will do you, and it will do you in its own way. There’s never been a human that it didn’t. I guess I’m just waiting to die, your mother said, bemused and incredulous...” (167) "But to let the baby out, you have to be willing to go to pieces.” (155) "It's a happiness that spreads." (176) "...save the sense, likely unconscious, of having once been gathered together, made to feel real." (176) The things I want to look further into: André Breton's Mad Love Deleuze/Parnet dialogues Barthes' The Neutral (No, my francophilic tendencies are not getting any better).

[lauramkaye]

Fic: Storage War

Based on a prompt by @kat-har. Archive post will follow shortly!

“You really don’t have to do this,” Phil said, hovering in the doorway.

“It’s really fine, babe,” Clint said, pulling out another box and coughing at the cloud of dust that billowed off it.

“I promise I didn’t ask you here intending to pawn off all the work. Maybe you could take a break until I—”

“Phil. It’s fine. It might just as well have been me getting called in.” Clint smiled at him, hoping it was reassuring. “I came to help, I’m gonna help.” He waved a hand at the storage unit, piled high with the detritus of Phil’s childhood and teenage years. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about just throwing it all in a U-Haul and driving it to New York—”

“Ugh,” Phil said. “No. We’d end up storing it for another decade before we found the time to deal with it.”

“Then let me help you,” Clint said. Reaching out, he snagged Phil’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, scraped a little from where he’d barked his hand on the wall trying to get the rusted padlock open. “That’s what marriage is all about, right? For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, for clearing out thirty-year-old storage units…”

Phil chuckled, turning his hand to cup Clint’s cheek. “I don’t remember that part in the vows.”

“It was right before the part about worshipping each other with our bodies,” Clint said.

“Ah, my favorite part.” Phil bent to kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint said. “I’ll have fun. Maybe if I’m lucky there’ll be baby pictures.”

Phil rolled his eyes. “More likely to be awkward, pimply middle-school pictures.”

“I bet you were adorable. Go, help catch the bad guys while I work on sorting the greatest fashion hits of the early 80s.” He reached into a nearby box and pulled out a “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt. “I think I might take this one home.” Phil laughed. “Just remember the size of our apartment when you’re deciding what you want to keep,” he said. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

“Sure thing.”

Clint smiled to himself as he watched Phil leave, then settled in to continue working through the massive pile of stuff. Phil had ignored the storage unit containing the contents of his mom’s house for decades; he’d still be ignoring it, if the facility wasn’t closing down, slated to give way to a new block of hipster lofts or something. So Clint, being a good partner, had taken some leave time and joined Phil in Wisconsin to deal with it.

They’d already worked through the furniture, picking out a few pieces to keep and donating the rest along with most of Phil’s mom’s clothes and personal items. What was left was mostly all Phil’s things. Honestly, Clint was kind of looking forward to going through them; he’d never known Phil as a kid, and there was something precious about seeing his carefully packed boxes of comics, the handmade quilt in red, white, and blue stars, the worn and ragged ear of a much-loved stuffed bear.

Clint had prioritized the things it would be easy to sort: outdated clothes that wouldn’t fit them, furnishings that had seen better days, an ancient cracked clock radio. The comics were easy, too, in the other direction; Clint wasn’t sure if Phil would want to keep or sell them, but he knew Phil would want to go over the collection in more detail.

He set aside a box of 8-tracks, humming Devo to himself, opened a box labeled “notebooks” in neat block print, and stuttered to a halt, blinking rapidly.

The box did contain a number of three-ring binders and spiral notebooks, but that wasn’t all; right on the top was some sort of comb-bound, copy-shop booklet which bore on the cover an overblown illustration of Captain America. Cap was tied to a post, his uniform shirt ripped to highlight his bulging muscles, and a masked Hydra goon was threatening him with a gun while cowering away from Peggy Carter, who was wearing a military uniform and brandishing a laser gun that Clint was pretty sure wasn’t historically accurate. Above Cap’s head, a hand-lettered title proclaimed the publication to be called “Rule Britannia.”

“Oh my god,” Clint said, and dove into the box with glee.

Some time later, he’d examined a remarkable number of Captain America fanzines. The earlier ones were general-purpose, with articles about Project Rebirth and the European Theater and, in one case, a painfully adorable letter from a fourteen-year-old Phil about the importance of the Howling Commandoes and Peggy Carter to the success of the SSR during the war. Later on, though, the general zines gave way to more focused ones, and Clint had to hold back his joyful giggles by main force. He’d found baby Phil’s stash of secret erotic Captain America fanfiction.

Best. Day. Ever.

Surprisingly, Phil’s interest seemed pretty evenly split between seeing Cap with Peggy Carter and seeing him with Bucky Barnes. Clint would have predicted Carter all the way, based on Phil's deeply nerdy obsession with her (and it was deeply, deeply nerdy, like, topic-of-his-graduate-thesis nerdy), but apparently Phil's appreciation for a smart-mouthed sniper was of longer duration than Clint had previously realized. 

Tempted though he was, Clint didn’t take the time to read the stories; there just wasn’t time. He contented himself with thumbing through the zines, looking for bookmarks, stray notes, or other signs that might show him which ones had been Phil’s favorites. Unfortunately, Phil seemed to have been just as meticulous then as he was now, and the zines were in remarkable condition for their age. Clint set the last of them aside in a pile and picked up one of the spiral notebooks. 

It had Cap’s shield on it, of course, and was well used, the corners worn and the spiral starting to work its way out of the top. Clint smiled, flipping open the cover. He felt a pang at the sight of younger Phil’s handwriting, recognizably similar to the way he wrote now, but more cautious, the letters formed deliberately as though Phil had been trying hard to keep it neat. Then he stopped looking at the page and started reading it, and he had to stop and clutch it to his chest in delight. 

Phil hadn’t just read Captain America fanfiction. He had written it. 

Clint sat his ass down on the dusty concrete floor of the storage unit and started perusing his treasure. 

Honestly, if Clint had ever considered the question he would have said that baby Phil’s stories would feature a thinly-disguised version of himself. Fictional Phil might be a previously unknown Howling Commando, or maybe some other kind of ally—a soldier, or part of the French Resistance, or a British spy—who came through in a tight spot to save Cap’s life and/or mission. (Which wasn’t really that far-fetched; it was pretty much the same kind of thing that adult Phil did for his agents now.) Possibly the stories might have ended with Cap showing his appreciation by inviting fictional Phil to bed, or at least with a manly embrace of gratitude. After all, wasn’t that was what teenage stories were for? Trying on scenarios, writing about the life you wish you had. Clint hadn’t been much for writing as a kid, but he’d sure as hell spun up enough daydreams, trying to fall asleep when it seemed like every inch of his body hurt. Daydream Clint was the star of the circus. Daydream Clint had a family who loved him. Daydream Clint had money, had a home, was the best archer in the world.

Daydream Clint had lived a life pretty much like the one Clint had now, actually, if you swapped out the circus for SHIELD. Clint kind of wished he could go back in time and tell his skinny, scared teenage self the good news. Stick with it, kid, things will turn out great for you one day.

Anyway, Clint wanted to know what Daydream Phil was like. Phil, being Phil, had helpfully dated each of his notebooks, so Clint piled them up in order, grabbed the earliest one, and started reading.

An hour later, he set the next-to-last notebook down, rubbing at his eyes. For all that Phil’s zine collection ran to happy romantic endings, the stuff Phil had actually written was pretty much the opposite. Clint knew—he’d known for years—that Phil’d had trouble as a kid, trying to reconcile his bisexuality with his dream of going into the Army. But Clint had never expected to see all of young Phil’s confusion and anger and hurt and fear projected onto stories about his boyhood hero. 

The Steve Rogers in Phil’s stories was pained and unsure, in love with Bucky and Peggy both and struggling to find a resolution that didn’t hurt either of them. The plots were pretty clichéd, and the prose was a bit overblown, but the emotions came through clearly. Steve Rogers, as Phil had seen him, felt like he had no good choices, torn between Peggy, Bucky, and his moral obligation to fight Hydra. If he went with Bucky, he lost Peggy and neglected his duty; if he went with Peggy, he lost Bucky, and felt guilty for allowing society to dictate who he loved. Just because he loved a woman, that didn’t mean he wanted his choice of partner forced by anything but himself. Clint wondered why it had never occurred to Phil to put Captain America in a fictional ménage-à-trois. It would present a neat solution to the whole love triangle issue, at any rate. Although he supposed it was probably a lot harder to think outside that particular box in the days before the internet. Who was supposed to be the role model, Three’s Company? Ugh.

The last notebook was all one, long story, and it was the most heartbreaking of all. In it, Cap was pining for his two loves as per Phil’s usual, but every other chapter was a short story where Steve imagined what would happen in a different scenario. Clint read a description of Steve and Bucky leaving the Army to live together, their happiness soured by Steve’s guilt over leaving the war. He read an account of Steve marrying Peggy and Bucky marrying someone named Lorraine. The two men set up housekeeping next door to one another, named their children after each other, while Steve tried to use his real happiness to bury the part of himself that never stopped wanting Bucky. There was a chapter where—finally—Phil had considered the possibility of polyamory, and Steve daydreamed about a life where they all got a house together, where Steve had a wife and a husband both, but even in that fantasy world they spent their time hiding, from the Army or the press or the neighbors, sending Bucky on false dates to try to keep their secret. Not one of the scenarios had a happy ending, all of them going back to the same place: Cap, alone and hopeless and pretending everything was fine. The story ended as Cap was piloting the crashing plane, giving himself one final dream as the water rose up around him. He dreamed of Bucky being found, alive after all, and he and Peggy comforting each other. They’d be perfect for each other, Steve thought, brilliant and beautiful together, and they would have amazing children with dark wavy hair and maybe they’d name the first boy Steve. 

Clint read the final lines of the story, his chest aching.

It was for the best, Steve thought, taking one last gasping breath before the water closed over his head. They both deserved the best. They both deserved a happy ending.

Clint closed the notebook and took a deep, shaky breath. He was not going to cry over ancient Captain America fanfiction, he wasn’t. 

He might possibly be going to cry a little over the writer, though. Thinking of Phil reading all those happily-ever-afters but never able to bring himself to write one of his own… 

“Clint? How’s it going in here?” 

Clint turned around sharply as Phil came around the corner. Shit, how long had he been reading?

“What’s wrong?” Phil asked, his smile falling away as he saw Clint’s face. “What—oh.” He looked at the pile of zines and notebooks scattered around Clint, the tips of his ears going red. “Oh god, I thought I threw those away.”

Clint dropped the notebook and scrambled to his feet, crossing the cramped space in a few strides and wrapping his arms around Phil, holding him tight. After a moment, he felt Phil’s arms come up around him, as well, and Phil patted Clint’s shoulder tentatively.

“Are you okay?” Phil asked quietly, brushing a kiss over Clint’s ear.

Clint sniffled. “I’m fine, I just—Phil. The happiest ending you could think of was Steve dying so that Peggy and Bucky could marry each other? I feel like I need to go back in time and make sure Teenage You is okay.”

Phil was quiet, his arms tightening around Clint. “Oh,” he said, softly. “Yeah. I was… things were tough, when I was writing those.”

“I could tell. When I found the box, I thought it was going to be cute, you know? Funny.” Clint nestled his head into the crook of Phil’s neck, taking comfort in the familiar bergamot and sandalwood scent of his aftershave. “I thought I’d get to tease you a little, maybe. I never thought you’d be into writing tragedies.”

“I was a melodramatic kid,” Phil said. “I had a girlfriend, and I loved her, but I also had a wicked crush on a guy I was on swim team with, plus I wanted to go into the Army… I felt like every choice I had was wrong somehow, like no matter what I did I’d end up unhappy.” He stroked his hand down Clint’s spine, heavy and reassuring. “If I’d known then how my life would turn out, those stories would have probably been really different.”

“Yeah?” Clint made himself pull back enough to see Phil’s face.

“Absolutely,” Phil said, and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to Clint’s mouth.

“All I would have needed to see is you.”

“That you ended up with a husband?”

“That I ended up with a happy ending,” Phil said, and Clint had to kiss him again until they were both breathless.

They ended up taking the box back to New York, where it found a new home in the back of a closet. The story kept nagging at Clint, at odd moments here and there, until finally he scrawled a new chapter in the back of a steno pad, an epilogue where Steve woke up in a hospital, the war won, and Bucky and Peggy both there to welcome him, holding hands with him and with each other. He felt kind of silly about it, but also like he owed Phil’s long-ago self some kind of resolution.

When he opened the box to stick the steno pad in, he pulled up short at the sight of something bright blue. He picked it up; it was a sheet of blue cardstock, and mounted in the middle of it was one of the photos from Clint and Phil’s wedding. They were dancing, looking into each others’ eyes. They looked devoted and intent, blissfully in love.

At the bottom of the page, there was a message in Phil’s neat, blocky handwriting.

And they lived happily ever after.

[maychorian]

Weekly Voltron Fic Recs #18

Rules: You can find past rec lists here. This is stuff I like, and I have a huge bias toward Lance, hurt/comfort, and general fluff, in that order. Gen unless otherwise noted. Please comment on the fics if you read and enjoy them!

Day 2: Home by genocidalCatgal Words: 1,440 Author's Summary: Blue is the best thing that has ever happened to Lance. My Comments: Suuppper cute bonding fic with Lance and Blue, early in their relationship. I love this emotional boy his giant robot cat. Also, very cool stuff about the past blue paladin.

Parasite Knight by VelkynKarma Words: 42,721 (WIP 7/14 AND UPDATING ALMOST DAILY) Author's Summary: “You may refuse all you like, Champion, but I have found the one thing in the universe that can be absolutely counted on is that everything that exists desires to survive. Even you. Perhaps especially you.”Something’s not right with Shiro, but it may go far deeper than anybody anticipated. My Comments: Holy crap on a cracker, this fic is EVERYTHING. It’s hurt/comfort and sickfic and team bonding and we’re only halfway through and it is SO incredible already. The insights into just everybody are amazing, and everyone has an important role in tackling this seemingly insurmountable problem. Hurry, hurry, read it now so you can catch every update as they come out. This fic is making the wait for Season 2 bearable.

Stoplight by acryology Words: 1,674 Author's Summary: When Coran and Allura learn about the game of "Red Light, Green Light" from the paladins, they all decide to play a few rounds as a "training exercise". My Comments: Cute team bonding!

all alone, all together by seules Words: 1,516 Author's Summary: This is bigger than anything he ever imagined. Lance knows the world’s balls deep shitty, so it’s not much of a stretch for the universe to take a crap and coat itself in it, only in a much larger scale. But it’s different when you’re told that the universe as you know it is about to be completely taken over by a tyrannical, fascist madman (surprise, surprise) and Obi-Lance Kenobi, you’re 1/5 of the universe’s only hope! My Comments: Aww, Lance and Allura bonding! I’m astounded that mine is the only comment on this fic. Please read it and encourage the writer.

The Ones We Leave Behind by psiten Words: 2,894 Author's Summary: In between all the bleeding and fighting, time for reading and writing. "Hey..." The unmistakable sound of a thought appearing in Lance's brain, like the proximity of magnetic force summoning an electric charge out of nothingness. "Wait a second, Pidge... your human name was Katie Holt, right?" "Um. My birth name was Katie, or Katherine anyway. I never stopped being human, thanks." Originally written for the PROJECT: PALadins gen zine (December 2016). My Comments: This fic was absolutely worth paying money for, but if you couldn’t afford it, lucky for you it’s available now!

A Little Unsteady (Hold Onto Me) by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee Words: 13,385 Author's Summary: Takashi Shirogane is nine years old when he holds his brother for the first time. “I’m here,” he’d whispered to his fussing baby brother, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.” And Keith stopped crying. He didn’t laugh; he looked up at Shiro with big, skeptical eyes. A challenge. Like this tiny person was saying ‘oh yeah, prove it’. And Shiro, newly nine years old, promised that he’d prove it. Shiro and Keith's childhood in moments. My Comments: Modern setting AU, but with a few tweaks I could absolutely see this working in canon-verse. It’s incredibly touching and well-written, and Shiro’s development from reluctant child to fiercely protective big brother was beautiful to watch. Both boys went through a lot of heartache, but by the end they’re together, and you know they’re going to be okay.

accidental by EmmaLuLuChu Words: 2,768 Author's Summary: one word prompt from a writing sprint in which a thing happens and it is Rough. My Comments: This is angsty but somehow hopeful at the same time. The team will not give up on Shiro. Ever.

this decay, this hope, this mouthful of dirt by lacking Words: 9,490 Author's Summary: Sendak steps closer and Shiro thinks about statistics —the insurmountable odds against Sendak being discovered in the void of space, the passing ship being Galra and not some scavenger. Pidge or Hunk could probably devise some kind of equation to highlight the absurdity of it, lay out in a spectacular display of numbers just how bad Shiro’s luck really is. Or: captured by the Galra and awaiting rescue, Shiro's forced to confront who he was, how he's changed, and what that means about the person he's become. My Comments: This one is stunning. The non-linear storyline really enhanced the confusion and incoherence in Shiro’s mindscape, and all of the memories and present scenes were well-woven and important. Especially loved the bits with the paladins together, and the ending was perfect. 

So Small and Significant by Hedgi for Meriadoc Words: 2,275 Author's Summary: With everyone scattered, Shiro has to chose who to go after first, and it isn't much of a choice. He promised himself weeks ago not to fail the Holts again. He may have to go farther than he thought to keep that promise. My Comments: Shiro’s unthinking protectiveness of Pidge is absolutely in character, and their interaction was lovely. 

Surely Someday by 15Strawberries for buttered_onions Words: 3,437 Author's Summary: Lance and Hunk have a tradition. Every day after class, they find an empty classroom to jam in, to unwind from the stress of the day. It grows from there. My Comments: Adorable college/jazz band AU. I love how the group grew and developed and came to depend on each other, and the ending was absolutely heartwarming. It reminded me of my own college experience in a music program, and that’s not a bad thing at all. 

Sorry, Who Are You? by squirenonny for Piper Words: 5,643 Author's Summary: When Keith was seven years old, he spent a year in La Quinta with a boy named Lance, the best friend he ever had. Ten years later, Lance and Keith reunite at the Garrison--only Keith doesn't remember who Lance is. My Comments: Mild Klance. I like the way this deepens canon, giving Lance a real reason for being upset with Keith from the beginning, though Keith’s forgetting is understandable, too, considering his life. The ending was sweet and satisfying.

Save The Date by buttered_onions Words: 1,979 Author's Summary: Homesickness in space is no joke, and Lance isn’t the only one who needs cheering up. Luckily, Hunk’s got a Plan. …assuming he can get it to work. My Comments: This is absolutely precious. Everyone gets lifted up, in typical Hunk style, and he gets a turn, too. I especially loved the continuing saga of Coran’s birthday tootle.

boredom is cruel and unusual punishment by babitty Words: 3,183 Author's Summary: 3000 words of Lance getting the shit beat out of him, because i needed to get some angst out of my system. it's not very graphic but injuries are listed and batons are used. My Comments: This is an old-fashioned whump fic, where the point is very much Lance (and Keith to a lesser extent) getting beat up. But there’s a lot of courage and tenacity on display here, and they do very much feel like themselves. An enjoyable fic, if you’re in the mood for hurt with not a lot of comfort.

Let Him Rest by jadencross Words: 960 Author's Summary: Coran does so much for the team. And Keith thinks that it’s time he did something for his crazy space uncle. My Comments: Ah, and this is pretty much the opposite of the last rec, haha. Love Keith being the very definition of Aggressively Cares About You, and Coran needs a lot more love. Sweet fic.

strength of the small by nowweareunstoppable Words: 12,736 Author's Summary: A false distress signal lands the paladins in a tough situation. It falls to Pidge to earn their freedom, and it doesn't come without a dangerous cost. My Comments: This fic is AMAZING. Pidge is an absolute badass, smart and strong and extremely well-characterized. The frantic run afterward to get her to help was intense and wrenching, too. And Lance was especially wonderful. You can feel his desperation, how deeply he loves Pidge and needs her to be okay, because she’s his little sister now and he CANNOT lose his family. Ahhh, I loved this one to bits. Highly recommended.

Previously Recced Fics That Updated This Week:

When Rome's in Ruins by BossToaster (ChaoticReactions) The Final Act of Mercy by ptw30 bombs and bullets by ashinan Where No One Goes by earthstar The Lightning Strike by Merilindir Beast You've Made of Me by BossToaster (ChaoticReactions) He Sleeps in the Sky of Ice by jadencross Coming Undone by Emerald_Ashes Someplace Like Home by squirenonny Road Trip to End Times by VelkynKarma

[limejuicer1862]

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Michael H. Brownstein

has had his work appear in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, Poetrysuperhighway.com and others. In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), The Possibility of Sky and Hell: From My Suicide Book (White Knuckle Press, 2013) and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100 Degrees Outside and Other Poems (Kind of Hurricane Press, 2013). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011). His book, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else: A Poet’s Journey To The Borderlands Of Dementia, is published by Cholla Needles Press (2018). He presently resides in Jefferson City, Missouri where he lives with enough animals to open a shelter.

The Interview

1. What inspired you to write poetry?

In elementary school, I began writing silly rhymes for no reason at all—mostly around the holidays, but in high school a Ms. Perkins—my history teacher—encouraged me to write because she liked the way I experimented with the essay form. At one point every sentence in any essay I handed in could not be more than five words. She thought it would be interesting to see if I could write poetry. I did, thought my stuff was OK—it really wasn’t—but I found I actually liked writing—so I kept on and on and now it’s many years later and I’m still writing.

Who introduced you to poetry?

I don’t remember, but I do remember Ms. Perkins and Archie Lieberman who thought I was creative enough with my short stories—in retrospect were not very creative or very good—to write poetry—and he liked my work enough to take them around with him when he was doing high profile photojournalism stories for magazines such as Look, Life, and Playboy. Of course, those editors knew my work was not that good, but I kept on writing mostly for myself until I fell playing hockey in my thirties, found myself in traction and then in bed rest bored out of my mind. That’s when I became serious, started writing better and began sending stuff out. FactSheet 5, (a magazine that listed hundreds and hundreds of zines, journals, and books with simple one to two paragraph reviews) was around back then and I used it as my go to reference to submit work.

How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

I always liked Mary Oliver. Read everything she wrote. Rita Dove is another poet I admire very much. Carolyn Forche because, well, because she’s Carolyn Forche. I always admired Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Robert Louis Stevenson.

What is your daily writing routine?

I write every day for about an hour, usually in the morning, and then come back to poems I wrote earlier in the day, months, even years, and make revisions in the evening.

What motivates you to write?

I feel I have something to offer. Sometimes I write just to write, other times I have a particular audience in mind, other times I feel I have something important to say and so I say it with poetry. I have a series coming out, for example, on the blog of Moristotle (https://moristotle.blogspot.com/), for example on reparations. I wrote it for African-American history month. Here’s a sample stanza:

If we go another thirty miles over, we arrive in Columbia, a lynching–there were more in Missouri, many more– and this one was no different–James Scott was lynched as more than a thousand white bystanders looked on– and he was innocent–the real rapist discovered after the fact– too late again–and no whites paid for the crime– Do we not owe Scott’s family reparations? A sincere apology?

What is your work ethic?

I submit to a publication every other day throughout the year. I never miss a day. I go to two poetry programs to workshop my poetry—and I am the co-host of the local library’s poetry program.

I spend every day with some writing exercise. No exceptions. I also carry around a notebook if an image hits my fancy.

Here’s an image that came to me when I saw the sunlight come out behind gray clouds and light up a field along the highway: We knew each other by the spotlight on wild flowers,

the bath of prairie sage and the colors blue and green,

Later, I turned it into a longer poem utilizing the first line at the beginning of each stanza.

How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I don’t rhyme too often, but when I do I look back to the work of Longfellow. He is still stuck in my mind. I even have one of his volumes in one of my boxes in the attic to this day—along with more than a hundred other poets—but he’s the one I remember.

Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

Safia Elhillo. She writes with a power that is incredible. Her poem “Girls That Never Die” is so brilliant, when I reread it—and I do reread it—I have to take deep breaths because this poem, for example, is that deep.

Martin Espada is another contemporary poet. When he wrote about the hurricane that took out Puerto Rico, you were there. You felt the pain of the people. You became one of them. He has a way with line and image that is just magnificent.

Then there’s June Jordan whose political poetry is made of magic.

Then there’s Carolyn Forche who’s book, Twentieth Century Poetry of Witness, inspired me to write an e-book, Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (http://booksonblog35.blogspot.com/).

And, of course, Mary Oliver who recently passed away and Rita Dove.

Why do you write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I write because it makes me happy; it’s the most satisfying thing I do now. I used to teach in the inner city of Chicago. That was the most satisfying thing I did. I’m retired now. Writing has taken its place as most satisfying.

What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

Write. Write what you know. Write what you want to know. Just write.

Put it in a drawer. Take it out days, weeks, even months later and read it again.

Revise. Revise. Revise.

I tell individuals who want to become writers to worry about audience and publication after you have what you feel is a completed work. Even then I invite them to workshop it with one of the groups I am in.

I also tell them it doesn’t hurt to read a lot of poetry.

Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I’m working on a book of prose poems and poems, The Tattoo Garden of Capella. So far I’ve revised it twenty times or more, but I keep coming back to it. It’s about a place that is magical and safe, a place full of color and love. At one point, dangerous people enter the garden only to have poetry destroy their weapons.

I’m also hard at work on a prose poem that’s rather long. In it, a poet with writer’s block gets help from a very eccentric man who sounds more like as tuba than a human being:

The odd looking man looked at him as if he had never seen him before—and perhaps he had not—and answered with soft moans, climatic yelps, silence, the sound of a tuba, and then an oomph. Ahh, he said, and then ohh. He paused. The rent is paid up, you know, but a long time ago I lost my way in…

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Michael H. Brownstein Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[stipulatedconflict]

Band interview with Purple-X(Oslo/Norway)

Pic is taken by My Scene Sucks(https://myscenesucks.com)

I got to know Turd through Skunk at the Lubricant show at Blitz. Skunk told me that Turd got a new(?) band called Purple-X and I grabbed the chance to get an interview for Purple-X. Their sound is like intricate emotional expression of depressive Norwegian winter. The guitar sound is remarkable which incites anxiety by its relentless riffs and vocal is groaning like from hell on sometimes quirky but very tight rhythm section.

They gonna release their demo by tape on Byllepest Distro. And they are having their release show on August 26th at Barrikaden. Listen to their songs and check their show.

Bandcamp: https://byllepestdistroofficial.bandcamp.com/album/bpd031-purple-x-demo-2017

BPD031 - PURPLE X DEMO 2017 by PURPLE X

The interview starts from below;

-So,who is in the band?is there any band which any of you have played
or been playing or currently playing beside Purple-X?

Turd:

I play with mathias in another band called Terrorstat been playing for some years.
me and adi been jamming for years but never had the time to play together, also been playing with tone in our old house-collective-band Internt Oppgjør. so jee its like a big soup of incest.

Mathias:

Just to be clear: Turd plays guitar, Tone sings, Adi plays bass and I play the drums. Incest is good, because then you get to play with your friends.

-Is there anyone who is deeply involved in any DIY punk activities like running label,writing zines,taking pictures,designing,organising shows etc in Purple-X?

Turd:

hmm been working/living in barrikaden for some years now. fixing backline, making food, playing shows etc..

also been printing merch for bands ive played in.

-Is there anyone who is deeply involved in any activities which is not any relation to DIY/punk thing? Art, Other type of music, publication,extreme sports or any other?

Mathias:

I go to the swimming hall and jump from the diving board to practice stage diving.

-How did Purple-X start in the beginning?how did all of you get together?Did you know each others before it started?

Mathias:

We knew each other, yes. Can't remember how it started. I would guess it probably had something to do with alcohol.

Turd:

Known adi for maby ten years or somthing.. and we wanted to play together and mathias is a kick ass drummer soooo we started to jam. we had another vocalist for some time but did not work out.. then tone came along and it was perfect!! woooh

-Why did you want to form Purple-X?

Turd:

was abit tierd of playing shitty punky punk and wanted something that was a bit more challenging.

Mathias:

No shrink.

-Was there any specific idea of sound before Purple-X started?

Turd:

Hmm i was listening alot to nuke york stuff and wanted to make something that is not so traditional oslo..

but also been litsening to alot like post punk stuff.. dunno, hard to be so strict about how we should sound.

Mathias:

I read in a magazine that if you're a strange anti-social loser, you can just form a band and you will get attention and you will get laid. So that's what I did.

Pic is taken by My Scene Sucks(https://myscenesucks.com)

-How do you describe the sound of the band by your own words?

Mathias:

Native Americans chasing and killing cowboys. Not our own words though. Somehow I keep picturing people playing frisbee when I listen to our demo.

-Is there any specific bands gave influence/inspiration to Purple-X sound?

Turd:

too many good bands these days!

-What kind of elements/influences do individual members bring to the band to sounds like Purple-X?

Mathias:

For me, I take inspiration from different stuff. As a drummer I'm inspired a lot by jazz drumming and Zach Hill from Hella as well as US and Norwegian hardcore. I like to incorporate beats and rhythms from different genres like surf, jazz, salsa, 70's rock/pop, bossa nova and reggae etc. into punk.(not that we sound much like any of those genres though) Personally I don't believe punk or hc is limited to any type of beat. Just play it fast and hard and you're good.

-How did you decide the band name?is there any special meaning?

Turd:

its a wordplay on perplex

-I heard that you guys were staying in the practice studio for 2 years before you had first gig. It is very long! Why did it take so long?

Turd:

jee we all had different bands and this was kind of a side project in the start and we did not want stress it

Mathias:

We had trouble finding a singer, so we basically made the first set list without vocals. Then Tone came in and changed our lives. She of course had to go through our special band ceremony where she had to eat a live baby goat. After we told her it was just a joke, she quickly left the band, but we kidnapped her back and so now she's a slave for rock n roll for all eternity.

-How was your first show at barrikaden?any good response from crowds?

Turd:

it was super fun! got a lot of good feedback! cant wait to play our next gig the 26 of august!

Mathias:

Very good. We were pretty good. Only good feedback and everybody liked us.

Pic is taken by My Scene Sucks(https://myscenesucks.com)

  -How's the punk scene in Oslo?

Turd:

it goes up and down. now its a lot of new good bands tho!

Mathias:

We are all happy and everybody's on welfare. We don't need to riot or squat houses because govt just gives it to us for free. It's just like Cuba only we can choose what we want to eat. And also our nazis make very low quality stickers, so they're easy to take down. It's basically utopia.

-How do you think about playing in a band in Oslo? comparing to playing a show in abroad?

Turd:

Its always nice to play abroad and meeting new people of the punkrock family and old friends. Also to see the reaction of people at the gigs. we havent played abroad yet with Purple-X but planning a tour in January. looking forward to freezing our ass off in the car.

Mathias:

I think I understand your question!

I haven't played that much abroad, but we were in Ireland with Terrorstat. Met a lot of good people and got to drink a lot of Buckfast which is an awesome and rare life-enhancer for us europeans.

-Which bands are you playing together a lot?any bands you feel sympathy as in a same scene?

Turd:

Haha only had one gig so far. but we been quite active with Terrorstat (me and mathias other band) and i like Båndtvang and Negativ maby the coolest new bands we have been playing with.

-Is there any bands you feel sympathy for the sound/attitude in abroad?

Mathias:

Dawn of Humans from NY is a good one. They played an unforgettable fucking brilliant show here in 2015. Crazy and good people as well!

I'm also looking forward to us playing with Urochromes in September - one of the better bands I've heard lately.

-Is there any good bands out there in Oslo or Norway which we should keep our eyes on in these days?

Turd:

Terrostat!! haha we are releasing a split 7" with Surge from ireland in september. just some shameless selfpromotion

Mathias:

Negativ and Båndtvang are two of the best hardcore bands from Oslo that are playing at the moment. Negative have an awesome energy and innovative playing as well as keeping it somewhat primitive. All good people. Båndtvang is like a mix between VOID and Die Kreuzen. The snarling vocals and fast chaotic instrumentals is the exact type of hardcore we need more of.

-How do you guys compose songs?some specific members are dedicated to it to bring completed song?or more like bring some riffs and developing it by jamming?

Mathias:

Usually Tord(guitar) or Adi(bass) bring some riffs to the rehearsal basement and we form the structure together. Tone writes all the lyrics and vocals. Everything comes very naturally and happens in between a cluster of bad jokes.

Turd:

I think its important to bring riffs to the rehearsal for jamming and improvement and also to get all the personalities in the band to the song.. we are all doing this together!

-You guys will release tape from Byllepest Distro. How did this happen?

Turd:

been playing with daniel (byllepest distro) in other bands before and also been partners in crime for some years. he heard our rehersal and wanted to put us out!

-Why do you choose tape as format of release? was there any attachment for tape?

Turd:

I LOVE TAPE! Also i think its a good format for releasing our first demo. And also just wanted to put out the songs we been playng to much for ourself in the gloomy basement of Barrikaden..

Mathias:

Turd loves tape.

-What is the further plan for Purple-X?

Turd:

We already started making plans for a 7" with new songs, a tour in January and print some merch!

Mathias:

Play good music, develop, release albums. I want to release a 12" LP, 'cause then you don't need to flip the record all the time and I'm lazy.

-Is there any specific goal/aim for Purple-X to achieve?

Turd:

Get weird or something. want to get evil as well.

Mathias:

Tour in north korea.